


Seven Deadly Sins

by spacemonkey



Category: Fake News RPF
Genre: Angst, F/M, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 19:10:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6820579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story about Pringles. Written in 2007.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Deadly Sins

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in early 2007, and I remember it starting as a crack fic about Pringles....and then becoming more and more angsty as the story went on. I don't remember much else, but obviously I was inspired by the seven deadly sins ha! Enjoy

**Gluttony**  
  
It was true what they said about Pringles. Once you popped, you really could not stop. Jon wasn’t even sure if he actually liked them, just knew that one was not enough, a handful didn’t even quench his need, and in ten minutes he could finish off an entire container. And still he would want more.  
  
Stephen seemed to agree. Jon watched his tongue slip out, lick his lower lip; no doubt tasting the salt and pure concentrated evil.   
  
Jon frowned as he mirrored Stephen’s actions in a way that he would have labelled as being unconscious had he not known he was doing it. Maybe the word contagious would suffice.  
  
Stephen smiled at him, almost shyly, and Jon knew what he was asking. He responded with a shamed laugh and another container of Pringles, and the stuffing of the faces continued.  
  
Pringles.  
  
They really were evil.

  
  
**Lust**  
  
It was the Pringles fault, Jon was sure of it.   
  
Couldn’t have been his fault; he wasn’t sure if his ego could handle another guilt trip, and for once, he didn’t even try. So it wasn’t his fault.  
  
He guessed maybe it could have been Stephen’s fault. He had been the one to lick his lips, to smile like that, to laugh and talk and leave Jon’s head buzzing with a thought of ‘uh oh’ and later ‘damn, that smile . . .’ and then finally, ‘what if?’.   
  
But really, it wasn’t Stephen’s fault that he looked like that; it was genetics, plain and simple. He couldn’t exactly go about being angry at genetics, that was a bit crazy, and he couldn’t even _think_ about being pissed at Stephen’s parents, the genetic hand-me-downers.   
  
So it had to be the Pringles. They had left the taste on Stephen’s lips, been so addictive for him to continue eating and licking his lips, and _they_ had made Jon’s eyes linger and later made his mind buzz.  
  
Definitely the Pringles fault. Jon just couldn’t decide whether he should stay mad at them or rub their crumbs all over his body, in the chance that Stephen’s tongue might feel the need to taste some more.

  
  
**Envy**  
  
Jon hated himself, truly hated himself at that very moment, watching Stephen and Evie exchange glances that were meant only for their very personal eyes.  
  
That was love.  
  
He hated Evie for being on the receiving end of that glance, and hated himself because what sort of a person was he to hate someone like Evie?  
  
But that was love.  
  
And Jon was missing out.  
  
So jealousy had reared its ugly head, manifested itself into annoyance during the night, and now that they were at the end of the night, it was just plain hate.  
  
Evie laughed at something Stephen said, something no doubt witty and charming and seductive and purely _Stephen_ , and Jon felt a growl coming on.  
  
He was seconds away from grabbing Stephen and pulling him away from his wife, taking him back to that day in Jon’s office with the Pringles. Showing Stephen what he had seen, demanding that . . .  
  
Jon didn’t know. He didn’t know what he would demand. Because who was he to demand something of a happily married man? And they were. Happy. Jon knew that Evie was well deserving of Stephen, that they both worked hard at the relationship, and they _fit_ together.  
  
And damnit, if that wasn’t the worst thing about his whole green-eyed inner hissy fit.

  
  
**Greed**  
  
There was a love song that Jon remembered, that he was sure he was stuck in, because he felt that wild horses couldn’t drag him away.   
  
He wasn’t even sure how they had gotten there, but they were there – _Stephen_ was there - and to Jon, that’s all that mattered. Not Evie, not reality, nothing. Just them and that damn song stuck in his head, but Jon supposed it could have been worse.  
  
He supposed again that it could have been the Pringles fault, that there was only so much of Stephen licking his lower lip that Jon could take before he pounced. And pounced he had, with the grace and efficiency not at all resembling that of a cat. More of a middle aged, awkward Jewish man, but in the long run, after a shocked look and a murmur of ‘we can’t do this’, Stephen didn’t seem to mind one bit.  
  
In the two hours since he’d pounced, Jon had come to love kissing Stephen, biting down ever so gently on that damn bottom lip that had taunted him for so long, and every time he did so the same thought crossed his mind:  
  
 _Mine._  
  
Jon had Stephen, had him to himself and he’d be damned if he was going to let him go; damned if he wasn’t going to dip his toes in a bit further into the water, then perhaps a leg or two before being dunked.   
  
Jon was smart enough to realize what he had, smart enough to want all the more.  
  
Once you pop, you can’t stop.  
  


  
**Sloth**  
  
Jon was a lazy bastard, everyone knew that, and it wasn’t something that he denied. But even he had trouble staying in the same position for more than an hour. Sure, if he was sleeping, he could put up with it, but not when he was awake.  
  
Right now, he’d clocked in at an hour and twenty three minutes, and still he hadn’t moved; save for the hand that was lazily stroking up and down Stephen’s lax arm.  
  
He couldn’t help the smile that sprung to his face, couldn’t fight back the small giggle the followed, and he wasn’t sure whether to be thankful or annoyed that Stephen didn’t wake.  
  
Jon let his gaze fall back to Stephen, watching his nose twitch then still, the way his eyelashes fluttered, seeing the way Stephen’s lips parted. Those lips. Jon could be forgiven for wanting to lay in that bed for hours, just staring at those lips that had been the Clyde to the Pringles Bonnie. Or was it the other way around?   
  
Jon had no idea, just watched Stephen sleep, watched him breathe and he was clocking in at an hour and thirty four minutes. His leg had fallen asleep an hour ago, had lost all feeling whatsoever half an hour ago, and fifteen minutes ago he’d declared it legally dead, but he didn’t care.  
  
Jon knew then, and couldn’t stop himself thinking he must have walked out of a cheesy romance flick, but he knew then, _this was love_.  
  
  
  
 **Wrath**  
  
Jon was sure that anyone watching him at that moment would be able to see him deflate. Like a balloon, without the crazy flying and spinning around the room that he had loved to indulge in when he was a kid.   
  
Perhaps he should have been standing in front of a mirror, seen for himself if his body had started to collapse into itself, like it felt like it was.   
  
He would have asked Stephen; he was watching after all, would have been a lot easier than finding a mirror, but that Stephen had been the one to puncture him, to stick the pin in deep. It would have been too hard to ask, too awkward, and Jon wasn’t even sure if he could form any words to ask anyway, his mouth was that dry and gaping.  
  
Stephen couldn’t even look at him, wasn’t speaking either, and Jon couldn’t help but think that maybe Stephen’s mouth was just as dry. But then he figured that, from the way Stephen’s lips looked - those damn lips - that maybe the words had died on them.  
  
Maybe he was stuck with an ‘I’m sorry’ on the tip of his tongue, or perhaps it was an ‘I didn’t mean it, I love you’ or worst of all, it might have been a ‘you should have seen this coming’.  
  
Jon waited to find out, felt his skin begin to crawl and his blood start to boil as Stephen remained as silent as the grave. Was he just going to stand there? Just dump his ass then stand there and not say anything, not even have the thought to walk away and let Jon break the fuck down?  
  
Finally, Stephen looked up, looked at Jon and managed a quiet, “This – us. It, it was a mistake.”  
  
Jon didn’t wait for Stephen to continue, didn’t have to. He could hear the whole thing in his head already, how he was a married man, how they shouldn’t have happened, perhaps Stephen would even blame the Pringles, but Jon didn’t need to hear it.  
  
He just started to yell.  
  
  
  
 **Pride**  
  
They don’t talk anymore.  
  
Well, they do. It’s sort of in the job description, but it’s only for show, only for production, only for the smiles of others.  
  
They don’t _talk_ anymore. They don’t hug, they don’t look, and they certainly don’t find themselves locked in Jon’s office, pants around their ankles.  
  
Jon refuses to miss those office visits, refuses to even think about it, because while he might be humble in every other aspect pertaining to his life, heartbreak isn’t just ‘every other aspect’.   
  
He couldn’t face the thought that Stephen might still think of him like that, that there still could be a chance, if morality hadn’t gotten in the way and stayed there for eternity.   
  
He couldn’t face the thought that Stephen might not think of him like that anymore, that there would be pity in his eyes instead of longing, and for once in his life, Jon was too proud to take a second glance, to find out the answer.  
  
So they didn’t talk anymore, and it didn’t hurt Jon, because he made sure it didn’t hurt him. He was pretty sure Stephen was hurting though, but that was filed away for a later date, some drunken guilt trip no doubt, but not now.  
  
Still, when he opened his office door one day and found a container of Pringles sitting on his desk, a ribbon wrapped around its middle, and a card handwritten by Stephen himself, Jon faltered.  
  
If only for a moment.  
  
Then he glared at the Pringles, thought _this is all your fault_ and picked up the container, dropping it in the trash without a second thought.  
  
The note was tucked away in his desk drawer, unopened and he sat down in his chair. He stared at the trash can for a few seconds, then got to work.  
  
Fucking Pringles.


End file.
